


Some Things Last a Long Time

by mytimehaspassed



Category: Make Me a Supermodel (US) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prison, Attempted Murder, M/M, Prostitution, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-10
Updated: 2011-08-05
Packaged: 2017-10-22 06:13:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/234763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mytimehaspassed/pseuds/mytimehaspassed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ronnie's first night in prison isn’t his last, and that’s really the only thing that he had wished for, sitting in the overcrowded jail cell on Tuesday evening, watching the other men pace around him, sleeping off hangovers, barely able to form sentences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**SOME THINGS LAST A LONG TIME**  
MAKE ME A SUPERMODEL RPS (SEASON ONE)  
Ronnie/Ben; Tyson/Ronnie; Perry/Casey/Frankie  
 **WARNINGS** : prison AU; prostitution; druge use; non-consensual sex; attempted murder  
Next: [EVERYTHING IS FREE](http://community.livejournal.com/andletmestand/10502.html)

  
Ronnie's first night in prison isn’t his last, and that’s really the only thing that he had wished for, sitting in the overcrowded jail cell on Tuesday evening, watching the other men pace around him, sleeping off hangovers, barely able to form sentences. That’s really the only thing that he had prayed for, sitting in the courtroom with his most expensive suit, his most apologetic face, watching the jury say the words "guilty" over and over again, his own personal mantra, those words that won't leave him even if he tries. He tells himself that if he could last the first day in gen pop, if he can get through the first day without having to suck dick, without having his face smashed in, well, then he can last the ten years until parole.

Ronnie’s first night in prison isn’t his last, but he never said anything about his second.

His cellmate is muscled and tall, with a jawbone that looks like it could break glass, black square-framed glasses balanced on his nose, stacks of books lined up on the metal shelf above the sink, dirty sheets rumpled on the bottom bunk. He looks at Ronnie the first day, sizing him up for a minute, looks at him and smiles tightly, says, “You might want to watch yourself out there, Fish.”

Says, “Your face is too pretty.”

Ronnie’s put in general population because he has shitty lawyers, not enough money, not enough power, didn’t commit a special enough crime to earn ad seg, and he remembers his mother crying that day in court, her face stained with eyeliner and lipstick and foundation, crying as Ronnie’s uncle led her away, crying as she saw her boy free for the last time. Gen pop, they told him, was where the career criminals were, the ones who raped and murdered, the ones that would be looking at him for a sweet mouth in the night, the ones that would want him for their own.

Gen pop, they told him, is full of overworked underpaid dirty guards who wouldn’t mind beating the shit out of him if they felt like it, if he talked back, if he even looked at them wrong.

Gen pop, they told him, isn’t for pretty boys from Chicago who take it up the ass for money and kill their pimps when things get a little too ugly.

Ronnie’s first night, he cowers on the top bunk, wide-awake, jerking at every sound, every movement, terrified that Perry would climb up, would be looking for a warm mouth, for soft hands, for something to satisfy that deep hunger in his belly. The next morning, Perry recognizes that look, the dark eyes, the slow, sluggish pull of his arms and legs, and he smiles and says, “Don’t worry, baby.”

Says, “You’re not my type.”

His teeth flashing white underneath the fluorescents, flashing clean, he says, “I don’t date whores.”

Every other inmate knows what Ronnie’s in for, it’s just gossip, but he recognizes the stares, recognizes that hunger, and he feels the pull in his arms, the pull of his veins, but he tells himself that that’s what got him in here in the first place, that’s what brought him to Tennessee and to Tyson, to spending half of his life in prison. Ronnie’s not a secret or a mystery, not like he wanted to be, not like he was to those johns out on the street, the ones with the classy suits and the briefcases and the stacks of cash. Ronnie’s nothing special, not like he used to be.

Perry doesn’t like whores, and anyway he’s already got himself two prags down in C block, ones with pretty faces, ones who don’t mind opening their mouths for free, and if Ronnie changes his mind, well, he can join in anytime. If Ronnie changes his mind, well, he might just be good enough to get something out of the deal.

Perry says, “You’re used to that kinda business, aren’t you?” His pretty smile, and Ronnie’s not dumb, but he promised himself that he wasn’t gonna become anybody’s bitch, not for protection, not for favors, nothing. And, well, he always keeps his promises.

***

Ronnie’s Tennessee is cold and dark, warm mouths and rough hands, bruises and blood and low, sweet moans. Ronnie’s Tennessee is waking up in a stranger’s bed, waking up to money, the cold chill of the morning, the soft touch of the sun upon his face, Tyson’s dark arms surrounding him.

Ronnie’s Tennessee calls to him at night from outside his prison cell, whispering to him about what he could have been.

***

Ronnie wakes up that third day to one of Perry’s prags talking low and soft somewhere near the end of the bottom bunk, the sound of sheets rustling against the mattress, the sound of Perry laughing, gentle, spread across the pillow. Ronnie wakes up that third day to Perry saying, “Casey,” more an escape of breath through his lips rather than a name, and Ronnie pulls the sheets tighter around him, around the warmth in his groin.

Casey says something Ronnie can’t hear, something that makes Perry go, “What?” sharp against the echo of the cold metal. And Casey says, “Your new cellie, he’s Ronnie, right?”

And Ronnie’s heart jumps in his throat, and he’s thinking, Oh God, he’s thinking, Oh God.

Casey says, “You better watch out, baby, he’s a rat.”

And Perry says, “Who told you that?” but Ronnie can already tell he’s getting it now, he’s putting two and two together, and, Jesus, but that part of Ronnie’s sentence was supposed to be kept quiet. That part was supposed to be kept out of public ears.

Casey says, “Frankie.”

Says, “I heard he killed his pimp and ratted out this big drug bust so they wouldn’t LWOP him.”

Says, “The Aryans are looking to pin a medal on him.”

And Perry says, “Shit.”

Says, “Just what I need.”

And Ronnie’s heart is pounding in his chest, so hard he figures Perry and Casey can hear him, trying to hold his breath in, trying to stop the warmth that’s starting to well up in his eyes, trying to figure out how much time he has before the whole unit knows, before the whole prison. Trying to figure how much time he has until someone shanks him just for squawking, just for killing a black man.

And Perry’s voice, soft and astonished, held close to Casey’s skin, Perry says, “Shit.”

***

Ronnie’s lawyer is blonde and pretty and smart, an old friend of his very old and very rich family, pulled together tight as she saunters into the visitation room with a swagger, her expensive suit, her red lipstick, her hair settled taut in to a bun on the back of her head. Ronnie says, “They know,” and Nikki looks down at her hands, interlocked together, her manicured French nails resting lightly on her knuckles. Ronnie knew that she knew that this day would come.

Nikki says, “Well, I could petition the judge for a move to another cell block, maybe another prison.”

Ronnie says, “How much time?”

And Nikki says, “Could be months,” and Ronnie knows that’s too long, knows it like he knows those hungry stares at his mouth, at the way his back curves when he bends down, knows it like he knows just how bad this is going to get.

Nikki says, “Hey.”

Says, “Listen.”

And she leans in real close, her pretty lips just inches away from Ronnie’s, her cherry scented perfume, her pretty face, and this is the closest Ronnie’s been to a woman in three days, definitely, in years, maybe, what with the shortage of cougars strolling his side of town, looking for a good time. Ronnie taking in her smell with long, drawn out breaths, Nikki says, “I have this friend inside, he’s a CO. He might be able to help you if you want.”

Ronnie pulls back slightly, wasn’t expecting this, pulls back and says, “Help me how?”

And Nikki says, “Just help.”

Says, “Don’t worry.”

Her pretty smile, the light touch of her hand against Ronnie’s, soft and smooth, the nicest touch he’s felt in a long time, and she says, “I’ll give him a call.”

***

Perry gives him a wide berth for a few days, says little, looks him in the eye even less, and Ronnie gets it, yeah, but it still doesn’t stop hurting, the way the other inmates look at him in the yard, the way the Latinos speak in rapid fire Spanish when they pass, the way the blacks size him up everywhere he goes. He gets it, yeah, but that doesn’t mean he wants to keep this feeling inside his chest all the time, this feeling of anxiety, of anticipation.

Nikki’s friend doesn’t come out of the woodworks until the week after she speaks to him, doesn’t come out until Ronnie’s almost cornered in the cafeteria, the glint of metal underneath the fluorescents and Ronnie’s blue shirt turning red right below chest, right on his ribcage. The way he sucks in air through his teeth, drops down to the floor before the shank can come back a second time, someone’s screaming above him, screaming about bitches and whores, and there’s a split second where Ronnie knows this is it, knows he’s done, ever since he decided to become one of Tyson’s boys, ever since he decided to work underneath his wing. Ever since Tyson looked at Ronnie and said, “You’re gonna make it, kid,” taking the roll of dollar bills out of his hands, touching his face with just the softest of strokes, his dark fingers running across Ronnie’s mouth, ever since Tyson trained him to be what he was, what he is, well, Ronnie knew that this day would come, too.

But there’s these arms coming around him, these strong arms that Ronnie can feel like electric across his skin, this hand pressing down hard on the spot where the shank caught him, pressing down hard on his tattered clothes, his skin, his blood. Strong arms, and Ronnie’s thinking, Tyson?

Strong arms pulling tight across his chest, pulling him up, pulling him away, the screaming and the cheers of the other inmates fading soft in to the background, fading, and Ronnie’s thinking, Tyson?

Thinking, I’m sorry,

Thinking, I’m so so sorry.

***

When Ronnie wakes up in the hospital ward, there’s a CO standing over him in a white tee shirt, holding a bloodstained uniform in his hands, smiling wide when Ronnie turns his face to see him. “We didn’t think you’d make it there,” he says, his teeth white, his dimples softening the southern drawl that rolls off his tongue.

Says, “It was kinda touch and go for a little bit.”

Says, “They thought you might’ve punctured a lung.”

Ronnie wants to say, “Thanks for the info,” in his most bitchiest tone, but his mouth is dry and the hack’s smile is unwavering, hands fumbling with his uniform, eyes bouncing around Ronnie’s face.

“Who are you?” he says, instead, croaking like he’s been asleep for years, his throat aching at the use.

“Ben,” the hack says, looking down, then up again, shy, his pretty face, “Ben DiChiara. Nikki’s friend.”

“Oh,” Ronnie says.

Then, “I’m sorry, but I probably shouldn’t be getting out of bed just yet.”

Pulls back the covers slowly, his hospital gown, the tan of his legs dark against the stark white of the sheets. “You can just touch, if you want, though.”

And Ben pales instantly, gets this hard look on his face, “No,” he says, “No,” and his hands grip hard on his uniform, grip tight, his knuckles white against the fabric. “That’s not…” and he’s shaking his head like he can’t believe what he just heard, avoiding Ronnie’s eyes, biting his lip.

“Oh,” Ronnie says, furrowing his brow, swiping his dry tongue across his cracked lips. “You don’t want sex in return?”

And Ben’s shouting, “No!” before he can stop himself, the nurses looking over sharply, the other inmates peering out of their beds. “No,” he says, softer, and there’s this look in his eyes that Ronnie can’t describe, this look caught somewhere between embarrassment and sympathy, but goddamn if Ronnie’s gonna be the cause of either of those emotions.

“Sorry,” he says. “Sorry, I just thought…”

And Ben’s nodding, like it might be okay, like they should just forget about the whole thing, lose it somewhere where they’ll never go again, lose it somewhere in the dark places Ronnie keeps things, like the look on Tyson’s face that night, like the way Tyson cried out Ronnie’s name right after the blood starting wetting his teeth.

Ronnie says, “What do you want, then?” pulling the covers back up over his body.

Says, “What else can I give you?”

And Ben says, “Nothing,” turning around sharply, leaving out the same door Ronnie imagines he came in, the uniform soaked with Ronnie’s blood still grasped in his hands, still pulled tight to his stomach.

***

Ronnie’s Tennessee was Tyson for a while, money and blowjobs and sometimes cocaine or dope or heroin, something to ease the hurt inside his chest, something to make him forget how he got here, how it all came to this. Tyson with his sweet smile, his sweet face, Tyson took care of his boys like he always took care of his boys, but Ronnie was something special, he knew, Ronnie was different, and the boys knew it and the johns knew it and Tyson fucking knew it, putting everything on Ronnie just to cash in. Ronnie was something Tyson could count on for more than just hooking, more than just money, Ronnie was it for a while, was the best.

Ronnie’s Tennessee was Tyson for a while, Tyson and his soft touch, his mouth on Ronnie’s mouth, his lips on Ronnie’s lips, his hands on tan skin, tight muscles, strong jawbone. And Ronnie’s Tennessee was good for a while, good enough for him to settle down in to it, this life, good at least until Tyson had had enough.

***

Ronnie doesn’t see Ben again until his last day in the hospital ward, where Ronnie’s smiling shyly as the nurse checks his IV, checks the white bandage just underneath his heart, the scar he’s sure he’ll have for a very long time, long and red and thin.

Ronnie says, “Think it’ll ruin my good looks?” and the nurse rolls her eyes and tells him he’s good to go, just as long as he doesn’t get into anymore fights with rival gangs, just as long as he keeps his mouth shut. And then Ben’s there, standing awkwardly next to Ronnie’s bed, uniform clean and devoid of Ronnie’s blood, hands with nothing to do but make fists at his side.

Ben says, “I’m supposed to take you back,” and Ronnie nods, wants to say sorry, but doesn’t because he’s not sure what he should be sorry for. After all, Tyson always said, once a whore, always a whore.

Ben helps Ronnie stand, muscles quivering from lack of movement, Ben’s hand strong and warm and wrapped tight against Ronnie’s bicep as they walk, and Ronnie can feel that surge of warmth go through him, and now he guesses he does have something to be sorry for, because you don’t just go around getting hard-ons from hacks, especially ones that already don’t like you. Ben is looking anywhere but Ronnie, and Ronnie chews his lip slowly before stopping in the hallway and turning towards Ben. There are no guards on this side, but they can both hear the rumbling noise of the crowded cafeteria, the cell door just feet away. Ben is still, muscles tightened, ready, hand still on Ronnie’s arm, and Ronnie slides his own hand up to meet it, fingers soft and light to touch.

Ronnie says, “I’m sorry.”

And Ben looks apprehensive for a moment, lost, before he nods and says, “Okay.”

And Ronnie knows that feeling, that feeling that’s charging his fingertips, Ben’s hand still in his, and Ronnie knows that feeling because he makes that feeling, all those johns he’s ever charmed, Tyson’s own skin pressed warm and close to his, Ronnie knows that feeling because it’s his, he owns it. Ronnie knows that feeling because that’s what brought him here, that’s what got him in this mess, that’s what Tennessee feels like.

And Ronnie says, “Can I kiss you now?”

And Ben never says no.


	2. Everything is Free

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Ronnie had met Ben on the outside, if he had seen him on the streets, if Tyson had given Ben the run of the mill, Ronnie’s soft skin and Ronnie’s perfect mouth, well, Ronnie might never have fallen in love.

**EVERYTHING IS FREE**  
MAKE ME A SUPERMODEL RPS (SEASON ONE)  
Ronnie/Ben; Ronnie/Tyson; Perry/Casey/Frankie  
 **WARNINGS** : prison AU; prostitution; drug use  
First: [SOME THINGS LAST A LONG TIME](http://community.livejournal.com/andletmestand/9663.html)

If Ronnie had met Ben on the outside, if he had seen him on the streets, if Tyson had given Ben the run of the mill, Ronnie’s soft skin and Ronnie’s perfect mouth, well, Ronnie might never have fallen in love. He tells Ben this, whenever he can get him alone, in the bathrooms around the corner from his cell, Ronnie’s dirty hands gripping the metal lip of the sink tight, Ben’s neck on the curve of Ronnie’s spine. In the deserted hallways after lunch when all the other inmates are in the yard, Ben pressed against the wall and Ronnie’s mouth kissing just above his belly button, Ronnie says this and Ben shuts his eyes tight and doesn’t say a word.

Ronnie knows that Ben knows that this is nothing new. Ronnie’s always sort of fallen in love with the wrong guys, pimps and other prostitutes and those fleeting johns, suits and ties and black briefcases with stacks of papers, their clean white shirts that their wives had hand pressed for them. Ronnie’s always sort of gotten himself into these situations, telling them the truth instead of what they wanted to hear.

Ben knows why Ronnie’s in here and Ronnie’s still amazed that he hasn’t stopped touching him yet, Ben’s mouth on the skin just behind his ear, where his hairline starts, Ben’s hand, flat and soft, following the angles of Ronnie’s hips, of Ronnie’s shoulders. Ben has a wife that loves him, the pale pink lipstick staining the starch of his uniform collar, the neat little stitches over the tears and holes, the golden wedding band clinking against the concrete, Ben has a wife that he would die for and Ronnie’s not exactly sure why he still does this.

Tyson used to say that the johns came to Ronnie because he knew the score. He knew how to please a man without saying a word, and those men, those johns with the black suits and the stacks of cash tucked inside their briefcase, they were the ones that craved silence the most. They needed Ronnie just as much as Ronnie needed them and that’s why Tyson liked him so much, that’s why Tyson gave him so much.

With Ben, Ronnie says, “I love you,” and Ben’s mouth straightened out into a grim line, his eyelids pressed tight together, his hands curling into fists, Ronnie knows that Ben is nothing he wants and everything he needs.

With Ben, Ronnie says, “I love you,” and Ben grits his teeth together, his hands on Ronnie’s back, Ronnie’s mouth lost somewhere beneath Ben’s chin.

Ronnie says, “I love you,” and Ben says, “I’m sorry.”

***

Ronnie’s gotten used to the sounds of Perry’s hushed breathing early in the morning, Casey or Frankie or one of the other boys in their block rustling sheets and biting down on moans, fingers gripping the bed frame tight, bare feet slapping against the wall. Perry knows all the new boys by name, before they even make the rounds, before they even affiliate themselves with shot callers, hoping to make their way up the ranks. Perry knows these boys like he knows the back of his hand and it’s nothing sweet or soft or beautiful, it’s nothing perfect, not like Ronnie and Tyson, not like Ronnie and Ben.

Perry will say, “This what you used to do on the streets, Rat?” licking the column of one of the boy’s spines, his eyes on Ronnie, his hands curled around tan skin.

Perry will say, “This how you used to earn a living?” and his tongue will trace freckles and scars and his eyes will be trained on Ronnie and Ronnie’s lip being worried by teeth.

Perry is every man Ronnie would get down on his knees for, only in blue sweatpants instead of pressed slacks, only with a lot more bruises and a lot less cash, his eyes hungry just like Ronnie’s used to. Perry is every man Tyson would turn Ronnie’s way, the ones with the secret bank accounts, the ones that could turn Ronnie’s skin black if they wanted to, if they only had enough cash. Perry is only doing what he knows, living by prison rules, prison morals, waiting until the day that someone with enough ambition can make it past Ben’s watchful eye and finally stick that shank into Ronnie’s heart.

Perry will say, “This what you remember?”

And Ronnie will say, “Yeah,” his eyes turned away.

***

Ben has a wife that loves him and sometimes, when Ben’s the only guard on the floor, sometimes, his mouth flush against Ronnie’s neck, his mouth wet and soft and Ronnie’s low gasps, covered by Ben’s fingers and Ben’s skin, sometimes, Ben calls her name instead of Ronnie’s. Sometimes, Ben’s mouth in the dark of the cell, Perry’s slow snoring below, sometimes, Ben calls her name and Ronnie holds his breath, feels the heat of the tears rolling down his cheeks, his face buried in the cotton of his sheets.

Sometimes, Ronnie wishes he’d never even met Ben.

***

With Ben, Ronnie says, “I love you.”

And Ben says, “Like you loved Tyson?”

And Ronnie won’t say another word, his hands tightening into fists, his nails cutting into his skin.

***

The first time Ronnie kissed Tyson, it was right after a big score, Ronnie’s fingers stained black from fingering hundred dollar bills, Ronnie’s mouth bruised blue from the pressure. Ronnie was sixteen, Tyson was twenty-nine.

This was Ronnie’s sixth week, working his way up the ranks, starting with the back alley gropes and the tight fisted hand jobs in station wagons and minivans with those yellow baby on board stickers, working his way from hand to mouth to ass, the johns that get prettier, that get more stylish, the suits and ties and black briefcases. This was Ronnie’s thirty-second john, not bad for a new face on the block, a new mouth that nobody’s sure they can trust.

Not bad, Tyson says, his hand curling around Ronnie’s bicep, and Ronnie’s smiling wide even though it hurts, and Tyson’s pulling the bills from Ronnie’s fingers, his mouth twitching with anticipation, Ronnie’s eyes big and bright and so happy. Tyson will offer Ronnie some coke and this time Ronnie won’t say no, sniffing a line through one of the hundred dollar bills he’s given to Tyson, two fingers to hold it all in as he lifts his chin up, tilts his head back, Tyson’s hands on Ronnie’s throat, smoothing out the soft skin there. Ronnie’s just kid, but at sixteen, he’s already fallen in love, and Tyson’s mouth firm against his, he can’t imagine this ever ending.

***

The first time Ronnie kissed Ben, Ben’s mouth was small and perfect, his uniform pressed and clean, his hands warm and strong on Ronnie’s face. Ben had whispered something, his lips against Ronnie’s lips, his cheeks red with excitement, his tongue swollen as Ronnie pushed nearer, the dull roar of the prison lost behind them.

Ronnie had sighed against Ben’s mouth and Ben had moved closer to pull Ronnie tighter into his embrace.

***

With Ben, Ronnie says, “I love you.”

And Ben turns his face away in shame, his hands on Ronnie’s cold with guilt.


End file.
